Erlenmeyer
by Peahenny
Summary: "Hippocrates could go take his vows and ram it up his Asclepius; this was big kid sciencing." [A snapshot into the secret affairs of dubious practices and forbidden relations.][Moicy ship]


Day 5. The heart that had been donated to the study had started to decompose despite preservation efforts. It had started to form concerning purple spots when the techs discovered an error in the containment unit's temperature gauge, and Moira's lip curled when she was presented the hideous shriveling thing that morning when she walked into the lab. It reminded her of a spoiled tomato. It was quickly tossed into the hazmat bin with all the respect one had for rotting foods, for the redhead cared little to hear from the panicking techs about the ethics of specimen costs as they scrambled to retrieve it.

It could be researched for new bacteria colonies! She didn't care. One labrat even had the audacity to claim it could be preserved in formaldehyde and put on display at a university somewhere, but there were always more hearts in the world; many were created every day. Moira had no time for boo-hooing over spilled plasma. She had more important matters to pursue.

She sauntered past the clambering techs with her coffee cup in one hand and the manila folder of recent trials in the other. Her stance was predatory in how she leaned forward with every step, and her mismatched eyes were set in the most hawkish of stares. Overwatch's staffing were unbearably stuffy, so staunch with righteousness that it turned her stomach the same way a common person would retch at the sight of the rotting heart. She hardly cared to hold any of their gazes while slipping her way down the sterile hallways until the office in question changed her direction.

To work here again after so many years of being spat on and kicked with dirt from the heels of the righteous was truly a fever dream she was still unsure was real or not. But, there was her name etched on a placard upon the desk, and those were her small pots of cacti and succulents perched dangerously close to one of the edges. Old scratchy melodies from decades forgotten trilled out from her record player by the water cooler. It felt like being home again after being evicted for running away with the bad boy, except the strict parents here were faces that had once curled their noses at her for daring to think. She scowled at that damned name card for thinking it had the right to assume she was one of them. Moira tossed the folder onto the desk and instead moved towards the coat rack. She studied herself in the body length mirror.

Lord, had sleep been unkind to her. There were bags under her eyes that were darker than her current nail polish. Her lids were set into a stubborn droop, though her pupils remained tightly wound in tiny pricks; any more tense and they'd belong to a viper. She humored her perpetual scowl by lifting it for a musing smile that lasted a moment or two. Oh, didn't science breed some bad bitches sometimes.

A loud gurgle croaked from the water cooler, and Moira raised a brow to regard it. The container didn't give her whiskey or coffee so she often ignored it for the big girl stuff. A rattle against metal sounded off elsewhere in the room, and that drew a bigger smile out of her.

"Ever needy." She chuckled softly.

There was a small refrigerator that was mounted in the table next to the water cooler. It often greeted her with leftover containers from her various jaunts through the lab's cafeteria, but she started leaving one section in it stocked with leafy greens. Moira skimmed the selection before she fumbled with a container of broccoli. The rattling sounded off again.

It was incredibly frowned upon, but she didn't give two shits if the animal inventory was suddenly one off in the daily audits. Settling upon her knees, she lifted up the towel which had covered the top of the cage taking up space underneath her desk. Two glittering eyes stared at her from the depths of its darkness before a wiggling nose sniffed her out. Moira's face softened into a gentle smile as she unlatched the door to the unit and set it down like a wiry ramp. A small white rabbit cautiously crawled out, sniffing at the air again until it honed in on the vegetable in her hand. She uncurled her fingers to present it.

"You're a chancer." She cooed, and that was true. This little bastard had survived its status as a living pincushion to the plethora of experiments going on in this sterile hellhole, and it had yet to take a turn for the broken side. It retained its gentle nature while its siblings cowered and perished in their cells.

The rabbit had its ears folded back as it leaned in to regard the dense plumes of the broccoli head, and it closed its little pink eyes while opening tiny jaws to clamp down around it. Moira reassured it with gentle pets while it ate. It was a harsh burden, and science demanded sacrifices. A quick glance to her own scarred hand confirmed it.

"The world is unkind to the affairs of dreamers," She mumbled coldly while stroking her finger tips along a soft ear. "...nothing in life gives free reward. We are punished for daring to make strives for improvement." The animal nestled itself into her embrace and turned to flop upon her joined thighs. It was a heartbreaking sight if one was familiar with lapines: a flop broadcasted comfort and trust. In a cruel world, the rabbit was trusting its own tormentor. Oh, how that stung her cracked soul. Moira knitted her brows.

"I cannot promise that you will be saved by the end of this. But I will never forget your sacrifices." She carefully tucked the animal back into its cage, keeping the towel lifted to grant it some light beneath her workspace. Moira gripped the desk's corner and the arm of her swivel chair while pushing herself back up, cursing her vitality in the aches she felt panging through her spine.

The fatigue of the morning was still weighing heavily on her shoulders. She could feel it throbbing her own heartbeat right up into the tense spots in her neck as she all but fell into her seat. Moira laced her fingers and rested her lips against them while closing her eyes. Her elbows stung as they dug into the sterile countertops where even a stack of papers provided little cushion. Her cracking mind sputtered out snail-pace thoughts. It had been at least twenty hours since she had list hit the pillow with her face; perhaps it was two days. Sleep was an endangered animal in the wilds of her schedule and as she was spearheading this sinking ship of a project...Moira grumbled out a small exhale between her interlocked knuckles. She was "encouraged" (a nicer way of saying "strong-armed") to be on call every second of the day for it.

It was a blue-eyed miracle that Overwatch itself had been desperate enough to dig up her calling card from out of the trash, so perhaps she could just bite her tongue a bit longer before she started biting off heads.

A rapping against her door frame was making that thought a salivating possibility. Moira opened her gaze with a serpent's slowness, glaring at the unfortunate tech who was now wringing her hands where she stood. Poor thing could embody all the traits of a mouse from how timid she fidgeted behind that tight brunette bun and homely large specs. She gave the older woman a timid wave.

"I-I was sent to confirm with you on the status of the specimen incident this morning-"

"It belongs in the trash." Moira replied sharply. The tech looked scandalized.

"But...Dr. O'Deorain! Organ specimens are no cheap things and even in the state it is in, I know we can salvage important samples for other studies…"

"Then dig it out if you are so inclined." She hissed now, tapping one finger atop another in agitation. "Scoop out the cholestorol and fats and spread them on crackers." The young woman squeaked, aghast.

"You cannot-"

"If you are going to interrupt me like an ill behaved child then perhaps you should understand the honest value of your toys more. Go and pluck out all the bruises and clots with your scalpels if you are so attached to the rotten thing. Use it as a pincushion or a canteen." Her eyes narrowed dangerously. The tech's mouth stood agape. Moira continued.

"It matters little to me for _I_ have no use for such a degraded thing in the research I was sent here to conduct." She felt winded just letting it all out in one go. The throbbing behind her eyes was pulsating in a dulled roar inside of her head. Moira rubbed at her temples, exhaling quietly to herself. If that wasn't a glaring enough sign to get the hell out of her office, then the tech had truly achieved perfection in being a modern neanderthal. The space was quiet now, and the longer it dragged the more she felt her neck beginning to crack from the tension. She had no time to play these insulting little games.

"Get out."

It was music to her ears, hearing the angered squeaks of rubber souls against old tiles and a rough slamming of the door a moment later. The redhead unzipped her muscles in a heavy sigh, slumped against her desk and burying her face in crossed arms. Her thoughts stewed in a brainstorm until the winds of sleep carried them back into the pits.

It was hard to deduce just how fast her mind had slipped from its mortal confines and into the threads of dreams, but at one point she felt something warm and heavy resting itself upon her shoulders and smoothing her neck. The budding heat soothed the icy mists of her troubles and brought the light back into the tones of her resting consciousness. Moira experienced imagery of crisp blades of dewy grass invading the streets of a city bathed under blinding light. She felt the softness of kitten fur in the gentle winds which brushed against her. Small balls of light danced in the currents like the Will-o-Wisps that her nan used to tell in bedtime stories to convince her that magic was truly alive in the world. Her waking world was a walking nightmare of rejection and dishonor, but psychology was funny; her dreams were a rare solace.

Something slender and soft was tussling her hair, which caused her eyes to flutter. In the warm fogs of illusion, Moira saw the dream city shift again. Birds began to erupt from the windows in colorful swarms while a soft jazz music rippled in a strange distortion; it was like trying to hear while being spun around at a dizzying speed. Rabbits hopped about in the grasses, shifting from four legs to two and wiggling their ears in the same directions she felt the sensations prickling her scalp. They all looked at her with the same wiggling noses and beady pink eyes, but they began to natter in Gaelic of all the troubles they saw in their fictional world as she walked by. They spoke of storms and heavy droughts, but smiled fondly at declarations of warm festivals under rich, biting vapors.

A soft clink against metal startled her ears. Moira's lids fluttered again and in that moment the vision of her ethereal city began to stutter and fade. Her face nuzzled itself against the fabric of her crossed arms as the background noises of the lab began to drown out the squeaking of the rabbits and the distorted jazz. She groggily saw the new cup of steaming coffee that had been placed beside her, far faster than she could make out the closing of her door. But she could ignore the visitor in favor of staring at the print lining the mug: a humorous message of "SELF MEDICATING" laid out in a series of painted pills and bandages. Only one scientist in this entire forsaken place owned such a mug, and Moira's cheeks flushed at the visage glowing inside of her mind.

Sun-kissed strands and baby pink cheeks. Eyes that could scare the ignorant and soothe the grip of fear on an innocent's heart. A smile that one could kiss for luck and feel so very loved and protected; a silent promise to only help and never hurt. Moira's reptile heart only loved as warmly as the kindness it stole, but this woman was a rare exception. Around Angela, the world suddenly felt less callous and more tender. Those gorgeous little marks burned into her consciousness and rocketed fresh heat directly into her chest cavity as she pushed herself up and made quick work in dusting herself off. Moira sat stiffly and grabbed the cup and a random paper in an instinctive push to look at least semi-productive to any other tech who felt like huffing and puffing down her door today. The coffee tasted as black and bitter as her opinions on sweetened creamed lattes, so that was a plus. The Swiss knew her well. Too well, if the comfort of her employers had anything to say about it. The tartness of the coffee and its fresh heat splashing down her throat worked wonders to startle awake the lazy nerves within her, but only temporarily.

Moira licked her lips as she rested her chin this time on an upturned palm. This project was ruining her.

Advances in medical technology (courtesy of said Swiss, who reluctantly took all the credit) allowed tissues to regrow at abnormal rates when damaged, but also provided a secret bonus as well. The "Mercy" took full advantage of her expensive equipment and battle suit to employ a form of modern day witchcraft that not only shocked bodies into beginning a state of rapid healing, but also tricked the brains of hosts into accepting that death was not an option: Angela was the first to revive victims of trauma whom had previously been declared dead, but only in very strict time windows. The new hush-hush endeavors under her scrutiny and the wallets of faceless investors was to produce that discovery into a more reliable, easier to replicate standard in medicine. Big powers swooned over the payouts that life-saving improvements could standardize in hospitals, military figureheads nodded their heads to the relief of holding onto soldiers for just a bit longer...but, of course, there were many, _many_ opponents who demanded blood for those who wished to play Frankenstein to Mother Nature. Faces like Mercy could not be the poster children for such a thing; that's where the Devil's rogues like Moira came into play. After so many days of interrogating, behind-door bargainings out of her earshot and countless headaches from persistent background review, Dr. O'Deorain was back inside Overwatch's doors. And this time, she had been hired to play God.

Right now, she felt like Hippocrates himself just clawed himself out of the aether to punch her in an act of cruel justice. "_Do no harm"_ the oath said, but it was respectable and deserved to run yourself ragged. That was self harm (to be pedantic), but it wasn't like any of the other researchers here cared about her. She knew that they gossiped about her behind her back, like a herd of zebras eyeing the old spotted hyena. Moira herself unfortunately had to abide by a secret addition to the oath: "_Do no harm"_ when employing words, too. Bad words and mean phrases could hurt precious mental health. This place was a sterile wonderland packed full of snowflakes who cried to their supervisors whenever she snapped, and Moira just knew by the end of the day there'd be another disciplinary report on her regarding the heart incident.

Hippocrates could go take his vows and ram it up his Asclepius; this was big kid sciencing. She bitterly polished off her coffee was glaring down at the most recent test results.

The new genetic strains she had meticulously spliced were not sticking. The donated organs also showed no signs of regrowth after a set incubation period, or there _were_ beginnings of promising tissue repair before they wilted under the expected bacterial blooms. What was the Mercy's secret in reviving the dead within those fleeting moments? Moira firmly rubbed her temples as she thought.

Both she and Angela had developed and perfected different versions of the same nanomedical spray over the years. Angela had been more refined in channeling it through fancy toys, but overall their brain power was similar. But Angela relied on stringent tests and machines to do the muscle work for her own causes: one cannot bring back the dead with just technology alone. One had to go directly to the source and focus on the building blocks of cells themselves, and that was Moira's expertise. She had been burning the candle at both ends these last few days, scrawling entire notebooks full of prototype sketches on various combinations and alterations to DNA strands. She took samples of her own tissues when the more proper technicians shied away or argued on the decency of sparing the animals. She literally had almost bled herself out multiple times in studying the durability of plasma and blood cells to see if they too could play a proper role in watering the flowers of success. She slumped against centrifuges and fogged up the glass with her own breath while staring down at the numbers like a starved undead. She hungered for results.

She couldn't fail.

Reluctant and beaten, the redhead pushed her aching bones away from the desk and lurched as she sat up. The heavy warmth from earlier had slipped from her shoulders and pooled against the back of her thighs and onto her chair.

How had she not noticed the blanket? Squinting, her lips pursed while she recognized the pastel wool patterns...it and the mug simply had to go back to their owner.

She haunted the halls again while carrying the items, unwilling to meet the gazes of the other white coats who eyed her curiously. Her cheeks were burning and she knew it. Moira kept her eyes instead locked onto the various name plates aligning the walls next to various doors, and when they were blocked by human and object alike did she instead direct her gaze to the safe zone that was the floor. The act alone stirred up old and horrid memories of her schooling years, and the echoes of old comments or whispers behind her back made her lips wilt downwards in a venomous scowl. She never had gotten along with others, friend or not. Nobody ever understood her visions. Perhaps it was the bullies who had first soured her views. Perhaps she had just been a rebel bitch from the start.

Moira silently proved her own point with an impatient shove to a lab tech as she muscled her way through the door with her lab coat whipping behind her like an ornery cat's tail. Others in the lab space paused to stare at her but she ignored them all in favor of using the detour to access a closer hallway. Her eyes started to sting at the vapors of cleaning supplies and from the bright glow of the overhead lights. Her headache was returning quickly, and it felt like it was summoning a steer's rage within her.

She all but dumped the precious items onto the proper desk once she had found the office in question. Angela nonchalantly glanced up from her computer monitor to smile at her.

"Did you have a good nap, schatz?"

Moira tilted her head downwards but kept her eyes leveled. It was a purely wolfish stance that unnerved all but the angel sitting before her, but it was a weak attempt to still hold footing in their meetings.

"They are going to start getting ideas."

The Blonde huffed and looked back at her screen, her smile remaining polite but tinged with smugness.

"Moira, they will start getting more ideas when seeing you like that. Never mind us." She was typing a wordy report, and it showed from how meticulously perfect her rapid keystrokes were. She didn't need to even look at the program in question, but doing so gave her an air of authority in the face of adversary. Angela focused a few seconds longer before the awkwardness of the tension drew her glance back. "I told you to sleep earlier."

"Sleep doesn't gain you the results you need." The redhead was leaning against the edge of the desk like an interrogating cop. She kept her shoulders squared and her brows knitted tight to look more composed than she really was right now. Of course, these days none of her callous ruse attempts even agitated the blonde anymore, but her own lack of self care did. Angela looked at her in annoyance. She looked more offended by the state of self ruin than she did the biting tone in the older woman's words.

"I told you there is no strict deadline on this. **You** are the one who keeps insisting on pushing yourself for results." She pulled her hands away from her keyboard and instead laced them against the spacebar. "I know you aren't pushing yourself like this to impress me, schatz. I've known you for too long." Her scrutinizing gaze fell into a small pout. "Please don't take heed into what they say. I already told you I am taking care of the negotiations." She even extended a hand out as an offer to soothe. There were no cameras in here; the world never had to know. Moira studied it for a moment, but instead sank down into the chair she had been leaning over. A heavy hum escaped her.

"You didn't need to do any of this. Bringing me back here was a lunatic's decision and I am tempted to accuse you of doing this for your own merits."

It was Angela's turn to sit up straight. Her jaw hung open while trying to grasp words, and instead she glared at the mug and blanket to better channel her emotions. She was a woman of esteemed prestige; being unladylike wasn't an option. Moira looked at the items too, and sighed again.

"Should I explain?" She found it was easier to say that and trip over herself to dissect her own cynicisms, but that only held up for so many situations. Sarcasm was a rattlesnake's venom in a society of mice. Angela had developed a tolerance for it, but a few droplets still sank through. The good doctor shook her head and closed her eyes for a moment. She appeared to be thinking hard on how to phrase her words. Finally, she opened her gaze again and started to grab her returned belongings.

"I requested your aid for specific and relevant reasons to the project, not from my own silly desires." The Swiss replied tartly and stood up, only to sink almost completely behind her desk to start rifling through the drawers; it also hid her from having to look at the cold bitch of a woman she had the misfortune of loving.

"I did it because your expertise could help the medical community make the breakthroughs needed to advance human progress," She slammed a drawer, "...and it might open a door to improve your reputational standing," another jammed on the handle of her mug, "...and it was a decision to help return you back to where you began." At this point her frustrations were bleeding into raw emotions, for she peeked almost shyly above the surface of her counterspace. Moira was watching her with stone-cold stoicism, but the way her eyes twitched to the blonde's every movement suggested that the redhead was taking in every word.

Moira was quiet, though her expression had turned considerably. It was replaced by a long-suffered gaze that was lost to the clouds of thought, no doubt raining memories of better days. Her gaze was still meeting the same familiar blue eyes but there was a level of cloudiness to her own. She blinked, shook her head once and instead started to smooth back her hair while clutching her side.

"I know. You did it to be merciful." A wry and tired smile escaped her control. "It always was your nature to take in the wounded in the world." It never felt right to be jaded or hostile to a woman like her. So, Moira always hated herself when old habits bit. It was her turn to express humility, mirroring the offer in holding out her hand across the table. By her own choosing, she went with the scarred one. Angela always had an affinity to it, as if rubbing along the battered veins and bruised lilac splotches could smooth the damage away. "I am not a fool to misunderstood opportunity. Without your compassion, I would never have a chance to be in these old halls again."

She waited patiently while the Mercy debated on her actions. Hell, Moira had waited many years for her after the divide of their dreams and the harsh realities of their visions cleaved them apart. She twitched her fingers in silent invitation and Angela splayed her own as they slowly extended out. The doctors made eye contact again when their palms touched and their hands slipped to instead lightly grip each other's wrists. Angela sat back down again and lightly curled her fingers against purple-tinged flesh.

"Let's not fight again, dear." She too sounded exhausted, but she was more practiced in hiding it; the woman always looked like she rolled out of a photoshoot. Moira pursed her lips but said nothing in return. Their hands slowly rotated, arms twisting and pushing until their fingers could properly lace together. The color shift between their skin was odd yet fascinating, and a long repressed childish side of the geneticist was reminded of grape candy canes. She squeezed the younger woman's hand in silent apology for her bad manners. Angela stroked her thumb against a knuckle in return.

They both sat in quiet contemplation before the redhead spoke again.

"What was the real reason that you brought me back?"

She already knew the answer, but there was a selfish satisfaction in hearing the answer for what it was, raw and dripping like honey. Angela shook her head slightly, huffing.

"I told you I didn't want to fight about this." Her voice was tense, pained. The way she looked at Moira spoke a hundred words for her, in that it had been a long, long time since they could sit like equals again in the same room. There were underlying motives, but she wasn't going to preach them. The Mercy observed the dark navy polish along those menacing talons as she exhaled softly. "...but I will admit there was a part of me that just wanted you back." She didn't want to think of the Blackwatch days again, but visages of Moira in a sleek battle suit and fetching beret...they still made her heart flutter in a shameful, scandalized way. Angela moved her other hand to begin massaging that damaged, veiny arm. "...and...it is not right to have the world keep giving me all of the credit for the birth of cellular healing advancements."

Moira's teeth grit, not from the words but due to the pressure of soft fingertips pressing against her damaged veins. They pulsed lightly beneath thin pale skin as the younger woman rubbed it. Her lips instead pursed into a thoughtful scowl.

"You are a good number of years too late for that confession."

"Schatz…"

"I know." No fighting. They were together again, and she had to be thankful for that. Moira also moved her free hand, cupping the one that was touching her. Now, there was only a metal desk separating them instead of miles of country and the bang of war drums. She couldn't put all the blame on Angela either; she was the one who spat in the face of the Oath and ethics, mad with lust for breaching the unknown. Angela had skeletons in her closet, but they trembled beneath Moira's demons. She looked up again.

It was like seeing the images in her head, but so much more grand and heart pounding. Those same soft pink lips that kissed her soul whenever she thought of the angel. Rosy cheeks that flushed a sunset's glow under taunts and thinly-veiled flirts. Eyes so expressive that they set a spell upon her heart that made it race like an unbroken stallion. Of course, Moira never forgot those bangs, those same bouncy tresses that the Swiss woman dutifully upkept over the years. Angela was a gorgeous creature, as fair and gentle as a morning's dove. Moira had no reason to deserve her other than to steal this sweet creature's heart...and that she had, many years ago in the jaws of her foxish trickery. Angela was watching her again, baffled by the strange expression on the face of the Irish woman but touched all the same. That soft little pout slipped into a warm smile that rivaled the heat of that cozy blanket that had warmed Moira's dreams. She even batted her lashes, which stiffened the tall woman's posture just a little more.

The trill of Angela's laugh was going to haunt her sleep for days to come.

"So, to put it more professionally...how are your tests coming along?" Angela asked with a warm smile. Moira blinked for a moment before briskly shaking her head clear. She coughed lightly.

"Take a guess." She gestured to her own face, smiling triumphantly when her self-deprecating humor drew forth another soft laugh. Her temper was like the contents within an erlenmeyer flask, always bubbling and fizzling dangerous fumes from deep in the pits of her being. But...Angela always knew how to handle her with care. Angela learned over time to smell the poison and appreciate the unruly nature of alchemy. To hear her laugh now because of herself, _Moira bloody O'Deorain_...there was a peace within the broil. Moira chuckled along with her.

She couldn't give all the credit either. She had tasted Angela's brew far too many times to count, though hers was like a concoction of heavy emotions that jump-started Moira's heart into loving again. Self love, love for others...love for a loved one. Angela's chemistry was a heavy drug that Moira couldn't stop craving.

But their time now was fleeting, and if they weren't careful they could do things in here that could land them on an investigative chopping block. There were many days worth catching up, many more fights that needed to be resolved, so many bottled up confessions and compliments that had been brewing away and between them for so long...but there was something remarkably therapeutic about just sitting there, hand in hand and staring at each other like two kids on a first date that calmed the volatile alchemy of their souls. There was no logical reason _why_ they should have been together, and there would have been countless reasons to line a case study on why they shouldn't. But they were smart women: the best chemistry was like that forbidden alchemy, relying on the braveness of plunging into the unknown while stirring the pot with controversial and strange ingredients. Frankenstein projects like this drew mad dreamers together.

As Angela leaned in to kiss along her sleepy face, Moira understood that all it took was a catalyst to set things ablaze once again. They were mad, mad women, hiding behind pretty oaths and swimming inside dirty money.

"You're a wild one, angel." She breathed while her eyes fluttered closed. "...giving me some bad medicine here."

There was something poetic about angelic imagery. Stories of angels with broken wings descending into the carnal sin of humanity and walk along the masses...or taking it upon themselves to save every soul from the brink. Even the serpents. Hot breath tickled her ear and a warm palm touched her cheek; Angela had moved around the desk now. There was a heaviness to her lap as the petite blonde perched herself upon a long and bony knee. The Mercy cooed softly, stopping just before the hot breath against the redhead's lips could melt into warm, blissful pressure. Moira exhaled shakily around the warm embrace that was suddenly enveloping her. Her heart fluttered in a frantic rattle inside of its cage when a warm face nuzzled into her neck. She brought her arms up to cradle the precious songbird that was nesting upon her.

"Let's enjoy the quiet while it lasts." Angela mumbled against her collar, and Moira agreed. The quiet from the project, the quiet from their superiors...the quiet from dark days in buried history. There was simply too much noise in their worlds. It stirred and boiled and simmered the concoctions in their erlenmeyer hearts. The quiet hushed the poisons and brewed the medicine bubbling beneath.

But soon, it would time to smell the vapors again.


End file.
